


Pandora's Book

by ShugoRyuu



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fiction, Poems, Poetry, Pre Relationship, Romance, hidden love confessions, purely self-indulgent, with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 14:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShugoRyuu/pseuds/ShugoRyuu
Summary: the words sound in his head, so so familiarand they were familiarbut they could have been said by anyoneanyone could string together that set of wordsanyone could place it in a poemCrowley didn’t even like poetry, sneered at it, mocked itBut wasn’t that just like him? Wasn’t that just what he did?- he acts tough, blusters, pretends he doesn’t like a thing when it’s a very undemonic thing. When it’s a thing he doesn’t think he deserves. When-





	Pandora's Book

**Pandora’s Book**

He finds them two weeks after the not end of the world. He’d been tearing through every book he had but never  had read and then going out and searching for more when he’d run out of those. It seemed as if he had suddenly been hit by the realization that all of this, all these wonderful and terrible things humans had made, books included, had been nearly lost. Forever. And he hadn’t read it all. There were things unexplored and memories that needed refreshing through the power of the written word. So he’d b egun tearing through book after scroll after script after tome.

Perhaps he’d been a bit frenetic about the whole thing.

But it all came crashing to a halt on Tuesday afternoon, the taste of a good earl grey tea still lingering on his tongue, as he ran his fingers across the spines of his newest additions. They were an unusual bunch. He’d gotten them as a package deal. He’d really only wanted the first edition collection of Sappho’s works, but he’d been allowed it only if he bought the whole case. Well. Not like money was an option to stop him even if he loathed to pay the price asked.

He picked from the books remaining at random. They were his now, might as well peruse them, see what humanity had written, be it good or bad or somewhere inbetween.

The book he picked up seemed to have a bit of all of it. Much like humanity as a whole, he supposed.

It was a collection of works from various authors. The forward said that while he had been an accomplished poet in his own right, some of the people he met seemed to have far wiser or more beautiful words than he. He simply could not let their words go on unnoticed and unremarked upon just because they had an unfortunate lack of fame to peddle them with. So here were the words, letters sent or shared, conversations or songs uttered, here they were written down. Some were signed, others left blank, and others still were hidden, tucked behind initials or clever pen-names.

Most of it seemed good; there were a few bits that were rather breathtaking and a few bits that were more than just dull, but on the whole he was having a pleasant evening in his armchair with his tea reading it.

He always read the names, the initials, whatever it was signed with, as a kind of game with himself. Could he spot a familiar name that made it big or even just had one thing published? Most of the names in the book had multiple poems so even the ones that were left with just pen-names were not too difficult to place. Having a steady sense of their prose, of their rhythm, and of their choice of metaphors helped place the individual if Aziraphale did in fact know them or their works. The ones signed with only initials with only a single poem or two were much harder.

Perhaps that’s why he kept such a record of who wrote what, often tracing back to compare poems to one another if written by the same individual. His mind whirling through authors famous and unknown, comparing comparing comparing

Perhaps that’s why the initials didn’t strike him as anything spectacular, anything familiar, anything more than just another puzzle to solve, perhaps that’s why he didn’t think of something familiar, something close to him, someone dear to him

He was up too close, loosing the forest for the trees.

At least, he was until the tree slammed into the car

or the car into the tree

or really

it was him in a bently talking about love

and then being slammed forward in his seat when they hit that lovely woman.

He’s reeling from the hit, staring down at the page before him as the words sound in his head, so so familiar

and they were familiar

but they could have been said by anyone

anyone could string together that set of words

anyone could place it in a poem

Crowley didn’t even like poetry, sneered at it, mocked it

But wasn’t that just like him? Wasn’t that just what he did?- he acts tough, blusters, pretends he doesn’t like a thing when it’s a very undemonic thing. When it’s a thing he doesn’t think he deserves. When-

Aziraphale reads.

It’s not great. It’s really not anything all too special, he’s consumed thousands and hundreds of thousands of poets and he knows there’s nothing too special here, nothing spectacular except for the way that if AJC is _his_ Anthony J Crowley then it tugs and rips at his heart at his soul at _him_

So Aziraphale reads and tries to find a demon too kind between the lines of emotions demons aren’t supposed to have. Tries to find a familiar voice sat betwixt the letters of thoughts rendered on paper in a letter shared with a man Aziraphale’s never met. Tries to read anything but the way the lines drip of Aziraphale Aziraphale _Aziraphale_

Tries not hurt at the tender ache in it all

He reads lines like

_Of all the faces he wears_

_the one when he’s caught off guard_

_wine-drunk and thoughtlessly loose_

_the one where_

_we’re secluded away_

_deluded in a moment of_

_we’re safe we’re hidden we’re safe_

_that’s the face I love best_

_the one that doesn’t lie_

_with every forced smile or_

_facade of unfeeling strength_

_the one that frets_

_or lets himself enjoy_

_all the things he deserves_

_yet thinks himself undeserving of_

he reads

_I cannot get too close_

_if not for him forbading it_

_warding me off_

_and he should_

_he should_

_I am nothing good_

_nothing that he deserves to have_

_if I had him I _

_would not let go_

_I don’t know how_

_I strangle things_

_with too tight coils_

_with an ache I cannot suppress_

_I would gather him tight_

_I would kiss constellations_

_across his breast bone_

_down his stomach_

_across his thighs_

_and down his arms_

_I would leave_

_stardust light presses of lips_

_against the soft skin_

_of the inside of his wrist_

_feel the pulse of his heart_

_the unneeded one he has_

_despite it all_

_the one with kindness_

_and bastardness_

_mixed together_

_like the finest wine _

_I would cradle it beneath my lips_

_worship it in the most_

_unholy of manners_

_in the most profane of ways_

_I would not be able to stop_

_it would kill me i’m certain_

_no_

_it’s best he forestalls me_

_forbids me_

_denies me_

_I am nothing good_

_and he deserves nothing but that_

he reads

_I am terrible_

_and no good_

_and hardly any good at that_

_I ache for terrible things_

_awful things_

_my hands feel empty_

_and they yearn_

_for the joy_

_the privilege_

_the chance_

_to cradle his jaw in my palms_

_the way stars were once held_

_formed_

_made_

_loved_

_When he’s around_

_my whole body sways towards him_

_towards his heat_

_his light_

_like a snake to a rock_

_to the sun _

_to a supernova_

_surely I will burn_

_but there will be no sweeter torment_

_than to finally go_

_by that which plagues me_

_at night_

_and during waking hours_

_with such ferocity_

_that surely I _

_am already dying._

He reads

_I’d slow the world if I thought_

_for just a moment_

_that it was what you wanted_

_what you needed_

_I fear I cannot do_

_that one thing which_

_you asked of me_

_I don’t know how to let go_

_how to not come_

_how to not search for you_

_feel out for you_

_come to you_

_I do not know how to stay away_

_I only know how to be around you_

_in your orbit_

_space was never so cold_

_before I knew your warmth_

_I’ve been cursed once to crawl_

_and yet you ask it of me again_

_alright_

_fine_

_I never have been able to deny you_

_have I?_

_I fear though _

_going much slower_

_will be a standstill_

_but angel_

_whatever you want_

_is yours._

He reads until he cannot. He reads until he cannot because he has run out of poems by AJC. He rereads them. He tries to pick them apart, see if it’s really Crowley, _his_ Crowley, but his chest is tight and his core is humming with _something_, and deep within himself he asks how could it be anyone _but_ him?

He doesn’t know what to do with this information.

_He does_

He doesn’t know how to handle this epiphany, this proclamation of things he knew already.

_Oh but he does he does he does_

He doesn’t know how to reveal to Crowley that he’s seen, read, been told so much more than the demon probably ever meant to reveal.

_With a tenderness that breaks him_

_nothing less _

_with an all encompassing love_

_with love_

_simply love_

Aziraphale steals a breath, and then another to fortify himself. He closes the book but marks the pages. He has work to do. He will take Crowley apart with love but it must be gentle and tender and lovely. And it must be slow. He cannot scare him off now, no matter how the demon blusters, his heart has always been a terribly soft and bruised thing wrapped in thorns.


End file.
